


Passenger Seat

by painted_pain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-31
Updated: 2012-03-31
Packaged: 2017-11-02 19:59:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/painted_pain/pseuds/painted_pain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s just them and Sam wants this to go on and on and never stop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Passenger Seat

Sam and Dean drive through the middle of nowhere, stretches of empty fields on either side of the Impala and no one else on the road but them. They have no particular destination in mind, no place to go, nowhere important to head to. There is nothing to hunt, nobody in dire need of their help, no dead bodies. No violence in their immediate future. It’s just them and the empty road ahead. It’s quiet and peaceful, a calm moment in the chaos of their lives.   
  
Their duffels bounce in the back seat and it adds the thrum of the engine, the sound of the wheels on the road and it’s a melody, a rhythm that Sam knows intimately, something that intertwines through his childhood and holds it all together, transforms it into something that makes more sense. This sound tracks the pattern of Sam’s life and he had missed it, that rumble deep in his bones, while he had been in Stanford. It brings a familiar comfort, a warm sense of drowsiness and it lights up something in Sam’s heart.   
  
Rolling the window down, Sam feels the too hot wind fold itself into the moving car, too thick to just rush in, to be cooling on his sweat-slicked skin and it smells like mid-summer, warm and sticky and rich. Dust from the road floats up and around in decorative swirls, rushing over the car, kicked up by the spinning tires. He sticks his hand out and watches as everything caught up in the air envelops his hand, earth and leaves and the odd flower petal, clinging to the gaps in between his fingers, the flat space of his palm. Sam feels as if he could wrap his hand around the air and tug, grab anything and everything. As if he could pull this moment towards and into him and lock it up tight, pour the memory into an airtight place in his chest, tucked in between his heart and his lungs, and never let it go.   
  
Keep it with him forever and ever, him and Dean and the Impala, the dusty back road, the too bright sun and the flashing scenery their only company. It feels like something new and old at the same time, an echo of an old memory unfolding into this moment and merging together new and perfect and whole. Everything seems ageless, immortal and permanent, like it could stretch on forever and never wither and die.   
  
It’s just them and Sam wants this to go on and on and never stop.   
  
He turns to face Dean, his t-shirt pulling across his shoulders, limp with sweat around his neck, clinging damply to his chest and back, sticking to the passenger seat. Sam just looks at Dean and sees the sun behind him, giving him and the tips of his light brown hair a golden glow, an illuminating halo of sunlight and lush green trees. His eyes track down past the beads of sweat on Dean’s forehead, the curl of his eyelashes, the line of his nose, the bow of his lips and the curve of his chin. It’s achingly familiar and safe, reassuring, something that never changes.   
  
Sam looks at Dean and thinks about nothing at all, his mind blissfully blank and too full at the same time, a strange buzzing silence. Dean catches his gaze, a question in his highlighted green eyes and Sam smiles his answer, lips stretching over his teeth slow and sweet, corners curving back and up, dimples flashing. Dean grins back, just as big and wide, and it blazes vibrantly, brighter than the sun trapped behind his head.   
  
Curving his spine to fit more comfortably, folding himself into the passenger seat, Sam then props his feet onto the dash, knees bent crookedly, angles sharp, elbows resting lightly on top, the heated, sluggish breeze tickling his bare toes. Dean smacks his upper arm as a rebuke and he just pulls a lazy smirk in return, too hot and sweaty, too full of something perfect and vibrating, to retaliate.   
  
Dean scoffs loudly, a sound that echoes in the almost-silence of the car and the world it moves through, and he turns his head away, to face his open window, to try and hide the small, secret smile tucked into the corner of his mouth. Sam can see it anyway and it’s a warm, affectionate, happy thing and he knows Dean is feeling everything he is.   
  
Sam knows Dean feels this too, feels how everything is too much, too big inside them, inside their chests, sliding under the surface of their skin, threatening to spill out and over, threatening to turn into lightening in the cloudless sky, over-bright and an electric shock of wonder.   
  
When it’s like this, nothing else matters, feet up on the dash, hands on the wheel, windows open and hands outstretched, palms open to catch hold of everything important and keep it safe.   
  
Dean pushes down hard on the throttle and the world just spins on by, the car flying down the road, fast and furious and free, all unnecessary things left behind, everything stripped down and pure. Nothing else matters when it’s like this because it’s them and Dean is driving Sam home, safe and sound.   
  
They are driving.   
  
And it is home.


End file.
